Was the guerrilla still in the place?
No; they were gone from the village.
“Whither?” was the anxious interrogatory.
They had taken the up-river road, towards the hacienda de Vargas. They had passed the boy as he lay concealed among some magueys; he had heard their cries as they rushed past.
“What cries?”
They shouted: “Mueran al traidor y traidora! Mueran al padre y hija! Isolina la p-t-a!”
“O merciful God!”